On the Edge of a Knife
by Lillibet
Summary: Lorien: Aragorn is troubled after the fall of Gandalf. No one realises that even the strongest have weaknesses. But that night, it appears hat not only Aragorn has an isolating fear about continuing the quest...
1. Fatally Flawed

Disclaimer: I'm not making money out of this fic. The characters belong to Tolkien, or whoever owns the rights. I wish they were mine.  
  
  
  
Silently as ever, Aragorn strode into the enclosed glade where Frodo had stood only an hour or two earlier. In the dense and overwhelming shadow of an incomprehensibly tall Mallorn there stood a basin on a tall pedestal, catching the gently trickling water of a stream. Though quite typical of elvish work, it seemed that a slight phosphorous glow emitted from the rippling liquid trapped in the bowl, or, as it occurred to an exhausted warrior, it pulled in the light from the moon and stars to make its revelations seen. For this was the eternal mirror of Galadriel, ever changing, never the same, its glimpses of the future subtly shifting as often as the waters over spilled. Aragorn sighed. He'd never looked into the mirror before, trying to keep his mind clear and focused as he had learnt as a child, not distracted by what may happen. Aragorn enjoyed, or at least could tolerate, living in the present. He had found quite early on that he couldn't cope with the turbulent history of his ancestors and the weight of things to come had affected his judgement and performance more than once. He couldn't fail now. It simply wasn't an option. Therefore now, with a heart made of mercury that was at once dense and heavy, quick and sharp, he climbed the carved stone steps and picked up the ornate silver ewer.  
  
The thoughts of failure made Aragorn feel slightly nauseous. With the loss of Gandalf, his best friend and only guide on this doomed venture, success was increasingly unlikely and now he needed to know everything that may aid, affect or ruin the quest of the fellowship. With the silver vessel, he stopped the flow of the stream that was distorting the surface of the mirror with ripples, slowly blinked and opened his eyes straight into the pool, prepared for any outcome that the water of Lorien could give.  
  
He opened his eyes and saw - nothing. Absolutely blank. A reflection of the sky above. In confusion Aragorn blinked and looked around him, at the trees, the sky, and back to the water- still blank... Aragorn laughed at his own stupidity, at his single moment of weakness. It'd never happen again, he'd make sure of that, but secretly he was glad that the mirror hadn't shown anything. For he realised that he was afraid...afraid of failure, afraid of carrying on without a guide or guidance, of leading the fellowship to their deaths, and Aragorn had no idea where all this fear had come from, though it consumed him utterly. Consumed his body and his soul... his entire being. He was frozen before the pool, its surface like dangerous black ice, but so much colder and more impassive with stars frozen and etched into its surface.  
  
As he stared, it felt as though he was drowning in the darkness, like he couldn't cope, and certainly not on his own. Cold enveloped him and it seemed that the constellations shifted until he saw before him the long line of his distinguished family. To his shock, he could see every face as though carved in stone, impassive and imposing. Aragorn tried to run, but he couldn't move an inch and besides, there was nowhere to run to. Gasping wildly, he searched the inhuman idols for a sign... and saw that the first of the line was cracked, flawed. His forefather, Isildur, split straight down the middle; wearing a mask of shame instead of a crown. And the man Isildur, suddenly apparent, kneeled to him. Aragorn bowed his head in reply, gazing in wonder at the prostrated King in front of him.  
  
After that, the rest of the vision was a blur, though Aragorn felt as though a veil had been lifted from his eyes and he could finally see clearly. He watched the Fellowship as they slept and could see past their exteriors to their cores. The small, resilient strength of the Ring-bearer, the determined love of his companion. The pure light and joy that made up the two smaller hobbits. The brute ferocity of the dwarf and the subtle power of the elf. The flawed man. The man whose weakness could make them fall... or save them. The man with desires unlike the rest of the mismatched group- for power. Certainly Boromir was dangerous, but he didn't know it yet. Finally, Aragorn saw himself as he truly was; a leader of men, a figurehead, filled with compassion, strength and love with the courage to lead and not fail.  
  
O, what he would give to hear Gandalf's voice again, to calm his trouble mind about these visions!, he thought as he was released from the thrall of the witchery of Galadriel. He relinquished his numbing grip on the basin's edge and slowly walked away from the grove, thinking he may fall due to his unsteady legs. Back at his designated flet, he rolled himself in Lothlorien's finest blankets and feeling what he thought was Gandalf's blessing, Aragorn fell into a dreamless sleep. 


	2. A Harder Path to Tread

Disclaimer: I'm not making money out of this fic. The characters belong to Tolkien, or whoever owns the rights. I wish they *were* mine.  
  
Chapter 2: A Harder Path to Tread  
  
Sam woke suddenly, sweating and uncomfortably aware of the distance between him and the ground. His aerial slumber had been disturbed by his gently sleeping master, shifting gently on the wooden platform. Frodo's turnings had revealed a glint of gold, visible on a silver chain around his neck, the moon giving tiny golden reflections of the ring bearer's peaceful face. Sam was so glad of his master's childish snores and the peace he had found in the realm of the Lady of the Wood. Perhaps even a little jealous- after the stress and trouble of the last few months, Sam would have given anything to have a night's sleep like Frodo seemed to be enjoying by the contented smile on his face.  
  
Before he had returned to the bower to sleep though, Sam's master had followed the Lady Galadriel, astonishingly bright and elvin, to a hidden glade where something had happened. Sam didn't know what, but by the confused and frightened look on Frodo's face it hadn't been a pleasant experience. Now, judging by the moon, it was just gone midnight and Sam's eternal curiosity in the affairs of the elves, coupled with an absolute need to know what had happened to Frodo earlier, was taking over. Gently, he slipped his arm away from Frodo's waist, and swallowing sharply, he began to descend the impossibly tall Mallorn.  
  
He had made a point of remembering the way through the groves and glades and open clearings of Lothlorien and with relief Sam soon stood at the entrance to the leafy enclosure that Frodo had entered. Sam hadn't been allowed. This refusal had cemented the feeling that in many ways his beloved friend was leaving him behind in some way, leaving him by himself in a world that was far too big for his little hobbit-feet. As he pushed aside the curtain of hanging vines, he gasped at the light that filled the clearing, silver phosphorescence that emanated from a silver basin in the shadow of an imposing Mallorn. A trickling stream filled the basin and a tall and graceful vessel stood by the side to catch its waters.  
  
It wasn't hard to guess that Frodo had gazed into the pool and had seen some horror there. Sam had gobbled up legends of the elves as a hobbit-lad and had no doubt in his mind that this was the eternal mirror of Galadriel, ever changing, never the same, its glimpses of the future subtly shifting as often as the waters over spilled. He knew what he must do. He would share in his master's experiences- maybe the last time they would have some common ground- and perhaps this would be a comfort to him. Resolutely, he climbed with strong feet an emergent root that was tall enough to lift him to the bowl's rim. At first he could see nothing but a rippled reflection of the night sky due to the rivulets that ran down the tree and shattered the illusions. Sam stopped the dripping and trickling with the silver ewer left for that purpose, quickly checked that he was alone, tried hard to dispel his guilt and opened his eyes to the full enchantment of the Mirror.  
  
It was over very quickly, if not painlessly. In seconds, Sam saw so many things, wonderful and terrible, that he didn't have time to know which was which. He saw towers of fire before a beautifully maturing forest. He saw the elves at Rivendell, singing in their ethereal voices, but in the background he heard the terrible screams of tortured souls. He felt the warmth of the sun on the back of his neck, just as he had at home in the Shire, but he was immersed in the darkness of Moria, watching the writhing flames of the Balrog. He saw so many paradoxes that he simply could no longer comprehend what was before him and he was getting dizzy and he felt like he was spinning over and over and his head, o how his head was aching.  
  
Sam blinked a few times and opened his eyes. He'd knocked over the silver vessel so once again ripples were spreading across the pool and he could see no more. He sighed, thankful for the respite and sat on the base of the hard pedestal. Now the ordeal was over he could understand what Frodo had been through, and, thanks to the vision, what he faced. It was true- what the lady Galadriel had said- the edge of a knife. It would take almost nothing to tip the scales away from them and Sam was part of that delicate balance. he could see that now. His job was to stand by his master and he was equal to that task. And anyhow, he'd never leave him, not for all the world. Anywhere in Middle Earth, anywhere, even back into Moria, that's where he'd go for Frodo. But for now, Sam deemed it enough for his truest friend just to return back to the scarily tall Mallorn where he slept. now that was a task he truly dreaded. 


End file.
